Or is he a cool and calculating killer who decapitates his victims with the skill of a physician?
Does he dissect his victims in some grisly workshop, carrying them to the isolated sections of the county where they are found?
Or does he lure them to the outdoor scene of the execution, acting with a deceptive charm and style?”
Merylo wadded the paper up in his hands. The fearmongering speculation went on for pages, doing its best to work readers up into a state of panic. The reasons were not hard to comprehend. They sold a lot more papers to the upscale folks on the west side than the folks on the east side who were barely scraping by. Before, this story was someone else’s problem. Now it was closer to home, potentially affecting every rich daddy whose son or daughter might be walking home late one night…
Merylo had been criticized for continuing to follow the trail of the tattooed man after the corpse was found on the west side-but there was a reason. They kept calling the west side corpse the latest victim- but he wasn’t. Dr. Pearce’s tests showed that that man had been dead for at least two months-meaning that the tattooed man was the more recent victim. Merylo hoped that the foray into the west side had been a onetime accident, perhaps something compelled by circumstances he couldn’t understand but that were unlikely to be repeated. There was no way of knowing.
Other than a particularly vague time of death, mandated by the state of decay before the corpse was discovered, Pearce had been able to tell him precious little about this so-called latest victim. He had been five foot five, around 145 pounds, with long brown hair, approximately forty years old. The skin was hardened and brown from exposure. He had been decapitated, obviously, between the third and fourth cervical vertebrae, but there were no signs of any other mutilation by the killer. Nature had not been as kind to the body, however. His chest had been chewed open by rats and insects, and the entire abdominal cavity was infected with worms. The body was far too decomposed to provide usable fingerprints and there were no useful clues in his clothes or on his body-not even a tattoo. Nothing that might provide any indication who this man had been or why anyone would want to kill him. Zalewski had scoured the missing person reports but come up with nothing helpful; there was no one fitting the description Pearce had provided.
He heard Zalewski huffing and puffing behind him even before he heard his voice.
“Sir! Sir!”
Merylo turned slowly, casually hiding the newspaper beneath his suit coat.
“Sir! Have you heard the news?”
“Should I have?”
“It’s big, sir. Really big. About this case.”
“You’ve caught the killer single-handedly.”
Zalewski stopped short. “Huh? Me?” He stopped to catch his breath. “No, it’s not about me. It’s about the safety director. Eliot Ness.”
Merylo felt a tingle that began at the tips of his toes and worked its way upward. A wave of nausea, and it wasn’t because of those four Coneys with sauerkraut he had for lunch, either.
“What about him?”
“He gave a press conference today.”
“As if that’s news. He talked about the torso murders?”
“Well, it wasn’t why he called the conference. It was supposed to be about his Boys Clubs. But Congressman Sweeney was there and he kept changing the subject.”
That was predictable enough. Sweeney’s biggest financial support came from the west end business community. Plus, as a Democrat, he would undoubtedly love to embarrass the appointee of the Republican mayor. “So what did the distinguished Mr. Ness have to say?”
“You really haven’t heard? It’s been all over the radio.”
“I’ve been busy.”
“He says he’s going to end the killing!”
“How? Ask the killer pretty please?”
“Criminy, sir, I don’t know what he plans to do. But he’s going to be working on this case. Our case. Isn’t that great news?”
Merylo remained silent. The nausea intensified.
“Maybe we’ll get to be Untouchables! Can you imagine? We’re going to be working with Eliot Ness!”
Merylo shook his head, lips pursed. “We’re not going to be working with him, son. We’re going to be working_for him.”
31
Ness tiptoed as he stepped through the front door of their bungalow. It was late-it always was-and he didn’t want to wake Edna if he could avoid it. Unfortunately, he was so loaded down with files and paperwork it was difficult to walk, much less creep.
A light came on. Edna was sitting in an armchair in the living room, wide awake. She was wearing her best dress, a lovely red satin number that he thought made her look like Claudette Colbert in It Happened One Night.
“Honey.” He dropped the paperwork on the nearest coffee table and moved toward her. “What are you doing up?”
She glared at him, her eyes colder than steel. “Waiting for you.”
“You shouldn’t stay up so late. I told Bob to call and tell you I’d be late. Didn’t he call?”
“Indeed he did,” she said, not blinking, expressionless.
“Honestly, honey, do we have to repeat this same discussion every time I come home late? You know how demanding my job is. I’ve had to deal with the press all day-”
“As if that’s a great burden to you.”
“-and I’m launching this brand-new project, the Boys Clubs. It’s going to be something really special, Edna. I’ve got funding from the city council, plus I’ve managed to raise contributions from private donors. I’m going to get all those stray kids off the streets and teach them how to be-”
“Do I look like a reporter?”
The volume of her voice rose so sharply and so suddenly that Ness literally reared back. “I-don’t-”
“If I wanted to hear this, I’d ask for a copy of your press release.”
“That’s not fair.”
“What’s fair? I never wanted to be married to a hero.” Her voice grew quiet. “All I ever wanted was a husband.”
Ness took a deep breath, then laid his hand on her wrist. She immediately withdrew it, recoiling from his touch. “I know I said I’d try to be home earlier, but-”
“We missed the Petersons’ party.”
The words hung in the air like a dirigible, suspended between them but going nowhere.
Ness racked his brain but he couldn’t think of anything to say, nothing intelligent, nothing witty, certainly nothing conciliatory. “Was that tonight?”
“Yes of course it was. Why do you think I’m dressed this way? Just so you could indulge your Claudette Colbert fantasy when you finally stumbled through the door?”
“Honey… I don’t know what to say. I’m sorry.”
“You’re not.”
“I am, darling. I sincerely regret that I-”
“No, you’re not!” she shouted. She stood up and walked to the fireplace, turning her back on him. “You want to placate me, but you’re not remotely sorry. You think you are absolutely justified in doing everything you do. Your work comes first.”
“That isn’t so.”
“Don’t kid a kidder, Eliot. I’ve been with you too many years. I know the score. You love your work.” She braced herself against the mantel. “Much more than you ever loved me.”
“Don’t sell yourself short.”
“I don’t think you could ever love any woman the way you love catching bad guys. And nothing can compare with the thrill you get from playing for the reporters, getting your picture taken, receiving the praise of strangers.” She pressed her hand against her forehead. “Pity it’s not possible to make love to a camera. Then you might actually have children.”
Ness’s lips parted. “Sweetheart-how can you-what are you-”
“I think you know exactly what I’m saying.”
“All this because I missed some party?”
“It wasn’t just some party. It was the Petersons.”